Hell is a Desk Job
by spuffy luvr
Summary: Wolfram & Hart's amulet sucks Spike in, and doesn't spit him back out. It's up to Buffy to save him.


Written for Fagends, for a photo prompt of JM as Simon in "Chance." I can't link it... look it up if you're not familiar. :)

* * *

She sees him the second she steps through the portal.

The radioactive hair is a dead giveaway, but even without it, Buffy would know him anywhere. No matter how un-Spike-like he looks right now.

They are in the lobby of a Wolfram and Hart building, almost identical to the one she stood in moments ago, except drearier. White, corporate, cubicle-y. Spike fades into the wall behind his desk: a plain, uninteresting man in plain, uninteresting clothes. The only hint he's ever been anything but mundane is the hair. He blinks indifferently, signals he'll be with her soon. Continues droning into his headset.

Buffy frowns.

She wasn't expecting it to be this easy to find him. _A Wolfram and Hart holding dimension_, Angel's seer had said. _A portal to a personalized hell. Impossible for you to find. Even more impossible for you to save him._

Buffy's palm indicates otherwise. It should have healed weeks ago, but hasn't. Her palm is still as pink and raw and –_ew_ – bubbly as it was when she left Spike in the Hellmouth.

Now it burns, too. Literally. Has for two days. Low flames dance along her skin, licking her palm with fiery kisses. They have compelled her, inexorably, towards Angel's office.

Towards the freshly unearthed amulet-which-is-really-a-portal.

Towards Spike.

Buffy knows she can save him. She knows this not in her heart, or her soul, or even with her Slayer senses… but by the palm of her hand.

"Hello, Buffy. Welcome to Wolfram and Hart." His tone is flat, emotionless. "How may I help you?"

She smiles. "Know any good fighters? I have a vacancy I need to fill."

"Seventh floor. Fighters and Warriors."

"Actually, I had somebody special in mind. A hero. A champion."

He doesn't react. His voice is empty, resigned. Bleak with not caring and hopelessness. "Angel's office. Seventh floor. Elevator to your left."

"No, I mean _you_, dumbass."

"Only hero to be had is on the seventh floor." There is no resentment in his voice. No fire, either. For the first time since she's known him, Spike actually seems, well… dead.

Her smile becomes forced. "_Angel_ didn't close the Hellmouth. _You_ did."

Spike doesn't answer. Pulls out a sheaf of paperwork, begins to stamp it. One sheet after another. Transfers each stamped paper to a tidy pile on the corner of the desk, straightens the entire pile.

_Stamp. Straighten. Stamp. Straighten._

With one quick flex of her arm, she sweeps his desk clean. He sighs, a tiny, barely-there sigh. Not angry or put-upon, but as if this is exactly what he deserves. He bends to retrieve everything, and Buffy grips his arm. Hard. "Hey! I'm talking to you!" Spike blinks, apathetic. She's scared now, which means only one thing can happen next.

She punches him in the nose.

It breaks with a sickening crack, but he doesn't react, other than to dab at the gushing blood. Buffy is far less calm. Far more wigged. "Oh, god, Spike, I'm sorry…" She's resorted to violence when she hasn't expected there to be any need. Well, not directed at him. She'd expected to fight unending hordes of demons. Maybe rescue him from terrible torture reminiscent of the First. But it seems as if he only needs rescuing from… himself? Or from her. She's not quite sure.

"I'm sorry," she repeats. "But I really need you to come with me. Let's get out of here, okay?" She reaches out a hand.

He ignores it, looks at his empty, blood-splattered desk. "Have a job to do. It's my job. I have to do it."

"_This_? This is not you! Your _job_ is to be with me. Fighting by my side. Being my champion!"

Something flickers behind his eyes. "Applied for the position. Didn't get it. Wasn't qualified. Not my place to try." The emptiness returns. "This is my place. Powers sent me here. Start at the bottom, work my way up. Only thing for a nobody like me to do, see?"

Tears threaten. She blinks them back. "You're _not_ a nobody!"

"Am. Nothing special. Nobody important. Impertinent to want to be a hero. Desk job's good enough for the likes of me." His shoulders sag a fraction more.

If he won't come willingly, maybe she can force him. Once he's away from the hell dimension, he'll snap out of it, right? Be back to his usual self, not this downtrodden drudge of a man.

Except it doesn't work. Each time she tries to manhandle him towards the shimmering portal, her muscles turn to jelly, and the floor elongates, like in a cartoon. Buffy figures this means he has to _choose_ to leave.

Spike sits back down. Organizes his desk slowly, painfully. Sisyphus and the unending paperwork.

Maybe Angel's seer knew what she was talking about. Maybe Spike won't be so easy to save, after all.

He stares past her. "Is there something else I can help you with?"

The flames lick Buffy's hand_. _

"Yes." She straightens. Moves into his line of vision. "I came to see the man I love."

For just a moment, he looks directly at her. Almost curious.

"Right." He doesn't jerk his head at the elevators so much as droop at them. "Seventh floor. Angel's floor. Everything you need. Wolfram and Hart thanks you for your business. Have a nice day."

"You. I love _you_."

"Seventh floor."

"YOU!" she screams, and in a fit of stymied rage, grabs his right hand with her burning left. Fingers entwine. Palm meets palm. His hand tightens around hers automatically. No hell dimension can make him forget her entirely, it seems.

The flames leap from her hand to his. Race up his arm.

He shudders. Stares at their linked hands.

"Ow. Forgot how much this hurt," he says as he begins to combust. Buffy doesn't cry. Or panic. Because his eyes are shining, and his smile is soft, and now –

"Love you, too, pet."

Now he can choose.


End file.
